


How Harry Judd learned to stop worrying and love the Postman.

by spirograph



Category: McFly, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-26
Updated: 2009-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His mother cried for hours when Harry told her he was going to become a hairdresser. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Danny is the delivery boy. Dougie works in the bakery and is "a lazy kid with a pretty face who always looked like he didn’t give a fuck which way was up."</p><p>This is absolute rubbish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Harry Judd learned to stop worrying and love the Postman.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, for Tarz.

Growing up, Harry Judd was told he could be anything he wanted. According to his parents he was extremely smart; “could be a doctor or a lawyer” his father would say, grinning broadly at friends and family over yet another lavish dinner. Harry never once entertained the notion that he might really follow in his father’s footsteps, taking over the Judd family firm when the time was right just the like every other Judd male since before anyone could really be bothered to remember. His heart was never drawn to money the way his father’s was, and in no way did the thought of being stuck in an office all day with dull business men appeal to him in the slightest; math and science and taking the temperatures of ill strangers didn’t really tickle his fancy either. Truth be told, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to do with his life, so he played along with his parents wishes, receiving his class-topping marks and becoming the cricket captain of his school’s premiere team much to everyone’s delight.

After graduating, Harry returned from boarding school and was informed that he must acquire himself a job immediately. At the time the only available position was at the local salon, Fletcher’s, sweeping hair from the tiled floors and making sure their stocks of hair care and nail products were full. The pay was terrible but Harry loved every minute of it. The girls who worked with him were beautiful, never a strand of hair out of place, their nails always perfectly painted; they liked him too, called him cute and talked about real things like best friends and boyfriends and the ways their families drove them up the wall. 

Nestled cosily between the butcher and the twenty-four hour laundry, Fletcher’s salon became Harry’s home away from home and, it was decided, after giving Harry free reign with a pair of scissors and an old wig, that he was pretty much a natural in the art of hair modification. Before long, Tom, the owner of Fletcher’s, arranged for Harry to be taught how to cut hair for real, an opportunity that Harry never dreamed would make him so damn happy. 

His mother cried for hours when Harry told her he was going to become a hairdresser. His father said nothing, instead announcing that he and Harry’s mother would be moving to London permanently. Hus mother cried again when he graduated from the hairdressing course, and again when he told her he was going to stay in the village, which had blossomed into more of a residential township over the years. He had already organized accommodation: a small apartment above the grocery store, big enough for one man to live in reasonable comfort. A bit of a change from the luxurious Judd household he was so accustomed too, but he didn’t mind much. The day his parents left, his mother embraced him and said, with unconcealed hope dancing in her eyes, “I still love you dear, it’s just…are you sure?” 

Harry Judd had never been more certain of anything in his entire life. There was no stress in cutting hair. Harry had always wanted a life like that, a life where he didn't go home at night with lines around his eyes from worry the way his father always had when he was growing up. 

Still, once a week the phone would ring, usually on a Wednesday at about five thirty pm and, shakily down the receiver, he would hear her: “Harry dear, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” was Harry’s usual response; not good, not bad, just fine. She usually seemed satisfied with that, sounding as if she was always on the edge of pleading with him to come to his senses and move to London; her voice was often hushed as if she were trying to conceal the conversation from her husband. Harry liked living on his own, although his mother worried for him constantly, begging him to find himself a girlfriend. He’d had few girlfriends, never really understanding why his friends at school were so obsessed with ‘the chase’ and luring girls into their beds over summer. Harry was no virgin, but his opinion of sex was at best apathetic compared to the whoops and jeers of his school mates when they returned from summer break. No, he never really knew what they meant when they described they way their insides churned with nerves when they saw the girl of their dreams. Not until he met Danny, anyway. Harry fully understood after that. 

//

Danny collected deliveries from the warehouses in the industrial sector just outside of town and brought them back to the shops for distribution. Every third or fourth day he would arrive at the salon around midday holding a collection of boxes with THIS WAY UP stickers plastered haphazardly all over them and a packing slip attached for one of the staff to sign. 

“Ey up,” he would grin, the front strands of his messy, kind of-curly hair falling into his blue eyes. The salon girls would giggle and in unison reply “Hello Danny!” (one of the older staff usually piping up after that with “Daniel Jones, get yourself a haircut!”, which was always followed by more giggling). It was like a scene out of a movie, the way the local girls knew his name; he charmed them all, even on his bad days, and the customers were instantly taken with him, the way he walked in and out of their lives so quickly, leaving behind a bright spark that they all felt the glow of for hours afterwards. 

Harry didn’t quite understand at first the reason why Danny made him so nervous. He thought perhaps it was because he was practically a stranger, even though Harry was more than able to chat happily with a customer he’d never met before. Their conversations usually began with Danny saying “Hiya mate, sign here please” and ended with Harry saying, “Sure thing” without a whole lot else in between. Every time, without fail, it left Harry with an almost painful amount of butterflies in his stomach. 

It wasn’t long before Harry found himself longing for the deliveries to be made, growing more and more agitated as they days stretched out, always the first to look up when the front door was opened, always the last to leave the shop at the end of the day, just in case. 

Danny’s deliveries started coming later and later in the afternoon, (the fault of the slacking warehouse employees, he said) until he was turning up just after the store had closed, tapping lightly at the window and letting himself through the unlocked door when Harry beckoned him inside. “Harry mate,” he would say, “these are for you.” Smiling as he handed parcels of beauty products over two-handed into Harry’s waiting palms like the delivery was a precious gift

Then leaning over the front desk, finger hovering just above the dotted line on the paperwork, Danny would whisper, “Sign here,” like Harry’d never filled out a packing slip before. Their shoulders would brush, waves of warmth shooting out from the point of contact and Harry’s heartbeat would quicken, his hand shaking slightly as he scrawled his messy signature across the page. Danny would wait a little longer each time, watching intently as Harry unpacked the contents of the assorted parcels to make sure everything they had ordered was inside. Satisfied, Danny would then grin, shoving the paperwork into a folder before tucking it under his arm. “See you in a few, mate,” he would say and Harry would smile politely, cheeks burning with the effort to restrain the overwhelming desire to burst into a wide, dopey grin. Harry had been taught manners, he’d been taught about hiding emotion and mixing business with pleasure, too. However, Harry had never been taught about falling in love with the delivery boy. That was a lesson he would have been grateful to have received. 

//

During the long working days Harry found his mind wandering, remembering in vivid detail the way Danny’s mouth curved into his charming albeit daft grin, the way his joy was contagious, happiness swelling up inside of him each time Danny laughed at a joke one of the shop girls made. There was hardly a thing that Harry could find fault in when it came to Danny, though that could have been because they were hardly even acquaintances, but each time Harry thought to change that he lost his nerve, panicking at the last minute and thinking maybe his feelings on the matter were wrong. 

In the shower at night Harry was hard pressed to find a better image than Danny writhing beneath his exploring hands, arching up to his caresses and moaning his name aloud. He could touch himself and see stars just thinking about Danny’s body pressed against his own; he supposed the reality of the act would, in fact, kill him. He’d never been with another guy (despite what everyone said about boarding school), so he had no idea what to expect or if he’d even like it; but if the thoughts he had were anything to go buy, it wouldn’t be half bad.

Sometimes Danny did a double run, arriving early in the morning with urgent orders of hair spray (this was mostly on Thursdays: Seniors Discount Day) and his cheeks looked flushed, his hair ruffled like he’d just rolled out of bed. Harry lived for the double runs, scanning the computer database and checking their paper records multiple times to find anything at all that could possibly get delivered early in the day. 

As time passed, Fletcher’s became more popular, the influx of residents in the neighborhood calling for busier days and even the need for late night hours on Fridays. By the time Harry finished his Friday shift the sun had set and the air coming through the windows was cold, causing goosebumps to rise all over his skin. Summer had faded a little too quickly for Harry’s liking, the transition hurried as if Autumn had been skipped over completely; one day the leaves on the oaks outside were green, the next they were nothing but brown slush lining the overflowing gutters in the streets. 

After a while Danny didn’t bother to knock after nightfall, just quickly slipped himself inside the store with an exclamation of ‘God! It’s bloody freezing out.” Harry would laugh, switching off the lights in the back room, making sure all of the faucets were turned off, triple checking that none of the curling irons had been left on. 

Then one night, Harry moved forward to sign his order form and noticed the tip of Danny’s ear was pink, poking out from beneath his black beanie. At the time Harry thought nothing of it, reaching out to pull down the woolen fabric so that it covered the raw looking flesh. Danny gasped pulling back and the word ‘Sorry’ was out of Harry’s mouth instantly, his cheeks heating and his whole body thrumming with embarrassment. “It’s okay, just gave me a fright is all,” Danny said with a calm smile that did nothing to reassure Harry at all. 

After that Harry backed off - or at least he felt as if tried his best to do so – terrified he’d made a mistake, worried he’d act before thinking again and scare Danny away. Danny however, got more daring, saying more and more as the weeks drew on, asking Harry how his days had been, asking about his family, the kind of idle chit chat Harry usually got from the old ladies whose hair he permed on Sunday mornings. Harry found it hard to breathe, signing across the dotted lines on packing slips while Danny leaned, chin on his hand, staring at him as if he were the most fascinating thing he had ever laid eyes on. 

Things were going okay, Harry thought, until late August when he met Dougie, an event which, when Harry really thought about it, was a blessing in disguise.

Dougie worked at the bakery, a lazy kid with a pretty face who always looked like he didn’t give a fuck which way was up. He didn’t say a whole lot, just packed things into bags and asked for the cash. Harry liked that, the mysterious kind of aura that surrounded him. It made Harry want him, but he didn’t really know why, or what he’d even do if he got him. On his lunch breaks Harry would buy himself a filled roll, but he’d always get back to the shop to find he’d been given some kind of cake or pastry too. He wasn’t exactly complaining about it, but he didn’t really know how he felt about being gifted food by the kid who winked coyly at all the old ladies he sold bread to. 

When Harry finally decided to accept the salon girls’ invitation to go down to the pub for a drink after work he hoped maybe Danny would be there too, but instead he found Dougie, sitting by himself at the bar nursing a rather large looking pint of beer. They greeted each other in a friendly enough way when Harry went to buy his drink, Dougie declining his invitation to join their group to finish his pint. The night wore on, Harry hardly paying attention to the discussion at his own table, his thoughts focused more on Dougie at the bar, Dougie who kept looking back over his shoulder to where Harry sat.

When Harry excused himself to go to the bathroom a half hour later he was shocked to find himself shoved backwards into the far wall after cleaning up, rough hands gripping onto the front of his jacket, Dougie’s eyes wide as he pressed himself against Harry’s body, his lips wetly smearing kisses over the sensitive skin of Harry’s neck. Their lips met, Dougie feverishly coaxing moans from deep inside Harry’s throat with the way he ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, wedging his knee gently between Harry’s legs. “God,” was about all the speech Harry could muster, the feel of teeth biting down on his shoulder through his shirt too much for him to handle. Then Dougie was breathing against his ear, “Take me home?” which was more of a statement than a question, really.

Against the front door of Harry’s flat wasn’t exactly an ideal place to have sex, but just past the threshold Dougie whirled on him, grabbing him by the back of the head and pulling him down into a clumsy, messy kiss that bruised Harry’s lips and left him gasping for air. 

Dougie’s slim fingers clutched at Harry’s clothes, tearing open his shirt as he desperately arched himself against Harry’s body, whimpering against his Adams apple when Harry finally had the presence of mind to slip his hands under Dougie’s t-shirt. Harry looked on dumbly as Dougie pushed him back against the door, unsure of what to do with his hands as he watched the other man unfasten his belt and drop to his knees, pulling Harry’s trousers down with him. 

Lips shiny with saliva and cheeks flushed, Dougie took Harry’s cock into his mouth and Harry decided then was a perfect time to lose control. It felt good, really, really good, Dougie’s tongue swirling around the head of his cock, slippery wet and so hot, his hands automatically coming to rest on Dougie’s messy hair as he pushed himself deeper into the other man’s mouth. He closed his eyes and was overtaken with thoughts of Danny: Danny’s mouth and Danny’s hands, DannyDannyDanny, and god he should have felt guilty but Dougie didn’t give him time to have a conscience, still working Harry’s cock with his mouth, using one hand to slowly jerk him as he did.

“I want you to fuck me,” Dougie panted, sitting back on his heels, and it didn’t occur to Harry until he had Dougie completely naked, sprawled out beneath him on the bed that he’d never actually had sex with another man before. Dougie didn’t seem too phased, positioning himself on his hands and knees and looking back at Harry over his shoulder like a goddamn porn star, grinning and licking his lips while Harry tried to work out what the hell he was even meant to be doing. The soft gasp of “lube. In my jeans,” didn’t really help much, Harry was pretty sure there was meant to be some more of that foreplay stuff first, but he found the small tube in Dougie’s jean pocket and coated himself in the liquid, easing himself into Dougie’s body gently, somewhat terrified he was going to do something wrong. “God, yes,” was a good sign though, and soon Harry was thrusting into Dougie without anything even remotely akin to rhythm, Dougie's knuckles turning white from having such a solid grip on the headboard, moaning through clenched teeth exactly how he wanted Harry to fuck him. Harry’s climax hit him suddenly, and he had to bite down on his bottom lip to stop from calling out the wrong name, fingernails digging into Dougie’s hips so hard he thought he might draw blood. 

Curled up against him, chest rising and falling slowly, Dougie hardly made any noise at all and Harry could hear perfectly the sound of his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. He felt completely unsatisfied, the guilt eating away at him as Dougie shifted in his sleep and he wished more than ever that it was Danny beside him, Danny’s breath ghosting over his skin. When Dougie snuck out of the apartment at 3am, Harry was still wide awake clutching onto sheets that reeked strongly of sweat. Eventually he was overcome and had to get up, pulling a clean blanket out of the cupboard in the hallway and lying down on the sofa, falling asleep to the sound of Dougie’s voice reverberating in his mind, his ecstatic voice moaning Harry’s name over, and over, and over. 

//

The working year continued. It was a Thursday (marked out in Harry’s calendar as a double run day) when it snowed for the first time. The girls at the salon decided it was too bloody cold to work and Harry cursed the heavens for their betrayal, for taking away his favourite day of the week and leaving him with nothing to do but sit on his bum all day and watch bad television. By the end of the day Harry had overdosed on Twinings and was so bored all he could do was lay prone on the sofa channel surfing, rolling onto the floor every hour or so to crawl to the kitchen to make another drink.

Things didn’t really improve much as Winter progressed. He and Danny passed each other in the grocers sometimes, baskets full of food enough for one, and Danny would flash one of his trade mark grins causing the icy chill that had set up residence inside of Harry’s heart to melt away entirely, if only for a moment. Harry felt himself blush every time, drawing a complete blank on anything he might say to start a conversation. Danny filled in the gaps though, quite happy to chat to him about anything and everything for the brief moments they were together, leaving Harry acutely aware of the silence upstairs when he returned to his flat. 

Dougie would turn up at his door past eleven pm at least twice a week, his skin white from the cold but his eyes burning with lust. Harry couldn’t say no, he didn’t know how. Dougie was attractive, not to mention willing, and when they had sex there was nothing soft about it, nothing to imply that it meant anything more than what it was. Harry found his release by hoisting Dougie up off the ground and pushing him against the wall, his comparatively small frame wrapped tightly around Harry’s body as they fucked awkwardly in the hallway, or beside the front door; they hardly ever made it as far as the bed, not that it seemed to matter. 

The more they saw of each other, the more Harry wanted Danny, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Harry ignored his feelings again and again until finally, lying breathless and spent on the bedroom floor, he told Dougie it had to stop. Dougie merely pulled his clothes back on, collected his belongings and shrugged “whatever,” and left. 

//

It was late October when Danny slipped through the front door of the salon, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself, his cheeks pink and not a box for delivering in sight. “I finished early today, there was nothing for me to bring you,” he said, looking sheepish when Harry gazed at his empty hands, “But I thought I’d come and say hello all the same.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, gazing around the half-lit shop.

“Oh.”

Danny reached out and took a mint from the bowl on the front counter. “Yeah, I erm, thought you might like to go for a drink?” Crunch. 

Harry was almost positive he was about to explode into a million tiny pieces. “That’d be, yeah, good. I’ll just finish locking up.”

Danny nodded. “What’s that over there?” he asked, pointing to a long black thing lying on one of the countertops. 

Harry stopped and smiled. “Here, sit down,” he said, motioning to a nearby chair. Danny cautiously did so, leaning back, shifting distractedly as Harry fiddled with the curious instrument, plugging it into the wall and switching it on so the light on the side glowed red. “It’ll take a moment to heat up.”

“But…what is it?” Danny asked again, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on the object. 

“Straightening tongs,” Harry said, eyes grazing over the shelf in front of him, reaching forward soon after and grabbing a small spray bottle of product, “close your eyes.” Danny obeyed immediately, hands grasping nervously onto the arm rests as Harry began spraying the sweet smelling chemical all over his hair. “That should be enough,” muttered Harry to himself, reaching for the tongs and a comb. 

Danny kept his eyes screwed shut tightly, not daring to open them incase liquid drip into his eyes. Harry dragged the comb through Danny’s messy hair, sectioning it off as best he could, running over the strands with the tongs until tiny billows of steam began to rise. It didn’t take long, Harry was efficient as anything with such a simple task, and when Danny opened his eyes he grinned broadly then laughed, “I look like one of them posh kids from up the street!” 

Their eyes met in the mirror and Harry felt himself swallowing his compliments. “Yeah. Yeah you really do.” He switched the tongs off and unplugged them, quickly retreating out into the back room with all of their supplies and the creepy wigs that no one ever wanted to buy. His heart hammered in his chest, so loud he was sure Danny would be able to hear it. A few deep breaths later he was composed enough to face Danny again, grabbing his coat from the rack at the door as he did. 

Danny was standing in the center of the dim store when he emerged, hands back in his pockets, gazing out of the front windows at the cars that drove past and flicking his newly straightened hair out of his eyes. He turned to look over his shoulder, “You right?” and though Harry could hardly see the other man’s face for the streetlamp glow pouring through the window, he felt lightheaded all the same. 

The event of drinking a pint with Danny was nothing to write home about, but it was entertaining to say the least. More than once Harry got so entranced he almost knocked over his glass, causing Danny to laugh loudly, patting him on the arm and saying “You right, Harry? You’ve only had one glass!” and even his mocking made Harry squirm in his seat with want. They parted ways at the sensible hour of nine pm, Danny leaving Harry standing on the corner of an intersection looking after him like the meaning of his entire life was written on the back of Danny’s coat. 

//

In early December Harry finally decided to go along with (one of) his mother’s (many) wishes, buying himself a (return) ticket to London so he could spend Christmas with his parents. By then he was meeting Danny regularly for drinks, even on the days without deliveries which only made Harry’s life that much more difficult. 

He just wasn’t sure, watching Danny laughing with the girls across the table from him, if the feelings he thought Danny might have for him were real, or if he was just imagining them to appease his deepening obsession. What Harry took for flirting might have been just friendly jest, and wouldn’t he look a right fool trying to make a move on Danny if he didn’t fancy guys at all. 

Three days before Harry was due to embark on his trip to London (a Friday, because Danny very rarely had to deliver goods on the weekends) Danny stood in front of him, animatedly explaining to him the latest update on some television show Harry had never even heard of. 

“I won’t see you till the Monday after next,” Harry said once Danny was done, putting on his most laid-back conversational tone, shuffling papers on the front desk out of order rather than making them neat. 

Danny’s response was a soft “Oh,” that Harry could only just hear over the whirr of traffic outside. 

“yeah I uh, I’m going to see my parents in London for the week,” Harry trailed off at the end, distracted by the way Danny was hastily pushing his papers and receipts into his folder, fiddling with the clicker on his pen a little too angrily. “I don’t think it’s going to be much fun…” he added. 

Danny glanced up, looking apprehensive “It’ll be nice to see your family, though.” His smile looked forced and the laugh he produced was weak, lacking in joy completely “Just as long as you don’t decide it’s better up there and never come back.” 

Harry didn’t know if the worry Danny failed so spectacularly to disguise was really warranted or not, but it kept him awake for most of the weekend, staring at the shadows cast by the streetlamp outside and thinking of the glint that had been in Danny’s eyes; the way he’d said goodbye to Harry like he thought it might really have been the very last time.

//

The week went slowly, painfully so. On a bed made up for him by the maid in one of the spare bedrooms, Harry lay on his side and anticipated the changing of the numbers on the digital clock. Five minutes felt like an hour on the starched-to-perfection sheets that smelled like they’d been over-soaked in lavender oil. He flipped onto his back, head sinking once more into the too-soft pillow. There weren’t even any cracks in the ceiling to trace around with his eyes, just a long expanse of flawless white paint that made his eyes phase in and out of focus. He thought of Danny; long, pale limbs and freckles strewn all over; dark hair falling against his skin.

Harry groaned and sat up. “Get a grip,” he whispered to himself, thoughts like that were just going to make the time pass even more slowly. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Danny and what he might be doing; watching television, talking on the phone. Maybe he was with a girl…Harry winced, stomach cramping with knots. He tried to rid himself of the vision: Danny kissing someone else’s lips, touching someone else’s body.

By the time Christmas Eve arrived Harry was beside himself with longing, so eager to return home that he had already packed his clothes back into his suitcase. The maid unpacked them again the next day, of course, and Harry supposed every flight would be fully booked, every train ticket sold, and his only option was to wait it out. He thought seriously about walking home as he stabbed his fork into a slice of glazed ham during Christmas dinner, at least that way he’d be moving away from his fathers disapproving glares and his mother’s conveniently blank expression. 

The flow of champagne was steady as the meal progressed and after opening presents (a selection of shirts and ties from his mother, a subscription to a dull looking business magazine from his father) Harry stumbled up the main staircase and into his bedroom, lying diagonally across the bed and willing himself to pass out. Later, his mother brought him some desert, the understanding look in her eyes something Harry had only been privy to a handful of times throughout his life. “You’re missing someone,” she said as Harry shoveled spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth, “He must be very special to have you so worked up.” 

Harry choked, eyes brimming with tears as he fought to keep his food from falling onto his lap. “What?” he said through his mouthful, “Why would you think it’s um, a guy?”

Stern was one word for the way his mother stared at him then, her hands on her hips as she said “I’m your mother, Harry.” And then she was gone, the door snapping shut behind her, leaving Harry wishing more than ever that he was back at home, curled up warm and safe in his own bed. 

//

Harry returned from London two days before New Years. Danny arrived at the store just before closing the next day and emptied the contents of his folder onto the desk, spreading out the papers and selecting the correct one. “How was your trip?” he asked, looking everywhere but at Harry’s face.

Harry bit back the incredible desire to scream out ‘it was horrid, I thought about nothing but you. Please god, let me touch you or I’m going to _die_ ’ instead opting to go with, “It was a bit bland.”

“mmm”, was Danny’s unenthusiastic response as his finger hovered over the dotted line on the order form, “sign here”.

Harry shivered, scrawling his name as quickly as possible, “How was your week?” 

“Cold,” Danny replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper, slipping the documents into his folder and securing them safely inside. “You up for a drink?” 

Harry politely declined, he had things to do at home, he said, which was a load of old cobblers. The week had been awful, he’d missed Danny so ridiculously he didn’t think he could even bear to be with him. All Harry wanted to do was go home and sleep. Danny looked disappointed. Harry tried to pretend he didn’t notice.

When he stepped outside the salon, however, he saw Danny hiding from the rain beneath the striped awning hanging over the doorway of the butcher. Dejected didn’t even begin to cover the expression on Danny’s face and Harry felt a pang of guilt, the guy just wanted to have a drink with a friend and Harry couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as him for longer than five minutes in case he accidentally blurted out some stupid confession of love. 

Pulling the hood of his coat up over his head, Harry began to cross the street, relieved when the rain eased up a few minutes later, the cuffs of his jeans dirty and his socks saturated. Miserable pretty much summed Harry up in that moment, as he found his way to the playground two blocks from the salon and plonked his already wet bum down on the damp seat of a swing. 

Before long Harry became aware of the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning to look behind, he saw Danny walking toward him, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, his black coat buttoned right up to the throat to hold his scarf in place. 

“I thought you had to go home?” he asked, sitting down on the next swing over, shoes scuffing against the bark matting. 

“I uh…” Harry began, but he was cut short by Danny’s gentle laughter. 

“It’s okay, Harry, you don’t have to explain.” He spoke softly, calmly, like he really meant it and it caught Harry off guard. Somehow he’d expected anger. “So, who is she then?” Danny continued.

Harry’s mouth hung open as he tried desperately to grasp for some kind of answer. “Well, I uh, it’s not exactly. You see…what?” and again Danny laughed, Harry’s cheeks heating as he fixed his eyesight on the lacing of his shoes. 

“You’ve been a bit off lately, is all. I meant to ask before you went away” Danny whispered, glancing sideways as if watching for Harry’s reaction. “I don’t mean to pry,” he added.

“There’s no girl.” Harry replied bluntly, not daring to look Danny in the eye.

“Oh. Well I think that Lindsay girl at the salon quite fancies you,” Danny said quickly, again looking to Harry for a reaction. 

Harry tried his best to look scandalized. “Shut up," he smiled, “She’s not my type.” Danny nodded at this, suddenly fascinated by his own hands which lay clasped in his lap. The wind picked up, joined soon after by the pitter patter of rain as it landed on the metal framework of the playground. 

“Wanna come up to mine for a coffee, then?” Harry managed, shocked that he’d even said it, more than a little relieved when Danny grinned and said “Yeah, only if it’s not too much trouble.”

Which it wasn’t, of course, and before long Harry was filling up the kettle and listening to Danny rave about his deep love for the music of Bruce Springsteen and chocolate covered candy. Harry was utterly besotted, unable to turn away from Danny’s wild hand movements as he played air guitar in the center of Harry’s living room, completely void of any kind of shame.

Harry thought about his trust fund, the bulging bank account that he’d been sitting on since he turned eighteen, the one his father couldn’t very well take back; there was well enough in there to support he and Danny for a good long while, enough to buy Danny a real guitar, too. Harry’s stomach clenched at the breadth of possibility. 

Danny sat back down on the couch and kept talking, content to have Harry just nod and say “uh huh” every now and then, his animated threads of conversation weaving in and out of Harry’s white-picket-fence type fantasies; the water in the jug bubbling frantically as Danny’s interest moved to Harry’s CD collection. 

With the coffee made, Harry carried the cups into the living room area, handing one to Danny. Their hands brushed during the exchange; Danny looked as though he shuddered, even though the room was quite warm, hands clasping his mug tightly as Harry sat down on the armchair opposite. 

“What, do I smell?” Danny asked jokingly, lifting his arm and sniffing at his shirt causing Harry to nearly spill his drink from laughing. Harry didn’t even get the chance to retort, Danny was off again, rambling extensively about something or rather. Harry was hardly able to get a word in sideways, not that he minded, it gave him time to polish off the box of biscuits sitting on the coffee table. 

Time, which Harry cursed repeatedly, caught up with them at ten pm, with the late night news announcing the days events and predicting horrible weather for the entirety of the coming week. “Suppose I should be heading home,” Danny said, collecting their empty cups from the table and carrying them to the kitchen. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry insisted, but Danny ignored him, the click of ceramics echoing through the apartment as Danny put them in the sink. Harry’s kitchen was far from a glossy modern affair, containing the bare necessities all within a cramped space hardly big enough for two people. Danny leaned casually against the countertop, watching Harry as he threw the empty biscuit box into the rubbish bin. 

Danny made no move to leave, and Harry thought it seemed as good a time as any as they stood across from one another, looking somewhat blankly at each another, to see if his so-called intuition was right about how Danny felt. Danny’s smile faded when he saw Harry’s expression change, his eyes growing quizzical when Harry stepped forward slightly. Harry couldn’t remember a silence so loud before that one, his heart hammering painfully in his chest as he leaned in and pressed his lips tentatively against Danny's. It was brief, barely even able to qualify as a kiss, but Harry’s stomach lurched as he pulled away, suddenly terribly aware of what he’d just done. Danny’s eyes were wide with shock, his knuckles white where they gripped on the edge of the countertop behind him; he looked rather like he wasn’t breathing. 

“God, I’m so sorry I-” Harry began, but was cut short by Danny moving away, “I should go…” he mumbled, quickly backing out of the kitchen, grabbing his coat from the back of Harry’s sofa. “Thanks for the drink, mate. I’ll uh, see you next run.” 

The door clicking shut behind Danny a moment later was deafening, leaving Harry standing alone in the center of his kitchen, lips tingling and positive he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. 

//

Harry thanked God for the Duty Free shop he’d passed earlier that week at the airport, because vodka & lemonade, he found, was more apt for drowning ones sorrows than beer. He hoped that it would work quickly and he would pass out before he really had time to analyse what it had meant, Danny practically fleeing from his flat. His third glass had him somewhat tipsy, feeling like some lowlife drunk down on his luck in a Hollywood film. Halfway through his fourth glass there was a knock on the door and when he answered it Dougie practically fell into the room, giggling as he picked himself up off the floor and stumbled to the couch. “Heeeey,” he slurred, “What’s up Haazzah?” 

Harry found it surprisingly easy to tell Dougie everything, finally putting his fifth empty glass down on the floor and saying “I wish I could just stop thinking about him,” to which Dougie replied, mouth suddenly very near to Harry’s ear, “I think I can help with that…” 

Dougie was gone by three am, Harry feigning sleep like so many times before; sitting up a moment later and watching through his blinds as Dougie crossed the street downstairs, hands thrust into his pockets and looking so small as he made his way toward home. 

Harry woke up with a killer headache and his mouth feeling like he’d eaten a bag of cotton wool. He called in sick even though he almost never fell ill - and his colleagues knew it - parking himself in front of the television, flicking through the channels and trying his utmost not to think about the previous day. He rearranged the magnets on the fridge door then brushed his teeth; he’d had three showers by the time the clock read midday and had hand washed both the dishes and his laundry by two o’clock. 

The post came late, an assorted collection of bills to pay and a card from his mother that read HAPPY NEW YEAR in faded pink script: he threw that in his ‘cards and other crap’ drawer immediately, not so keen on being reminded that he was probably going to spend another year alone. 

He was back in bed asleep by eight pm, blankets drawn up over his head to block out the outside world; wide awake again by five am and sick of the day already. Work was busy, with children screaming loudly and at length about not wanting new haircuts, the salon girls’ swapping stories about their crazy families over Christmas and what they would be doing New Years Eve. 

Danny arrived after closing with a rather pitiful look on his face and a single box between his gloved hands. “Hi, mate,” he said. 

“Yeah, hi,” Harry replied, and that was that. They didn’t talk about the kiss. Harry didn’t know if that made the situation better or worse, but the air was so thick with tension Harry thought he might be able to cut it with a pair of styling scissors. 

On New Years Eve Harry stayed at home. He heard the fizzle of fireworks being lit unsuccessfully on the street throughout the night, laughter of teenagers mixing with the chatter of his TV. There was a knock on his door at a quarter past midnight, Dougie’s breath ripe with alcohol and his cheeks pink from the cold as he leaned against the doorframe. “Still depressed, huh?” he said, shrugging off his jacket and inviting himself inside; it wasn’t overly funny, but Harry laughed anyway. 

He didn’t sleep with Dougie again, although sometimes he craved the closeness so much he could have cried. Dougie seemed content enough without intimacy, arriving at Harry’s place after work infrequently just to chat and watch DVDs. 

On Valentines day Harry woke up with his fingers crossed, checking his mailbox on the way to work and again on his lunch break only to find it piteously empty on both occasions. The girls at work gave him cards though, kissing him on the cheek in turn and pretending to fight over him. Danny didn’t do any deliveries that day, but Harry stayed at the salon an hour past closing time anyway, just in case he turned up. The highlight of his day was returning home to find a box outside of his front door with ‘TO HARRY FROM DOUGIE’ messily capitalized across the top. Inside were some Valentines themed cakes, a piece of paper lying flat on the top of them with “save me one!” scribbled across it. 

When Dougie showed up that later that night he told Harry in great detail about some girl he’d met while Harry eagerly sucked the remains of a strawberry tart off his fingers, grinning when Dougie cocked an eyebrow and looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It’s really good,” was Harry’s defense.

“So, does he love you yet?” Dougie asked, helping himself to a packet of crackers from the pantry. It was about then that Harry decided Valentines was definitely the worst day of the year. 

//

The next week was better, the sun at least attempting to break through the clouds. Dougie visited once, on a Wednesday, to say the girl he liked had said yes to going out with him. Harry never expected he’d feel ecstatic about Dougie seeing someone new, but he didn’t think the news would make him feel so miserable. His mother phoned shortly after Dougie had gone, and he told her as per usual that he was fine; she didn’t ask about his love life, although he could tell the question was lingering in wait somewhere down the line. After she hung up Harry concluded, while making yet another cup of tea, that his life was a complete blowout. 

When Danny slipped through the door that Friday night, dark circles beneath his eyes and his pupils glassy, Harry thought maybe, by the way the air in the room became uncomfortably thick, that that was it: the end of his rather unsuccessful friendship with Danny Jones. As usual, Danny placed the package he’d brought on top of the front desk, unpacking his papers for Harry to sign.

The uncomfortable silence proved too much for Harry, who mumbled some excuse about finding something to write with before walking into the back room. Sighing soundlessly he leaned against the shelving unit and stared at the lightbulb on the ceiling like he was waiting for it to give him some key advice. 

“You’ll go blind doing that,” he heard from the doorway, Danny’s voice scaring him half to death. Then Danny was closing the distance between them, stopping only when his face was mere inches away from Harry’s own. The whole room started shaking, or maybe it was just Harry’s vision losing focus because he could feel Danny’s warm breath ghosting over his lips, his open hand coming to rest on Harry’s cheek. Harry shut his eyes and Danny closed the gap completely.

It was uncertain at first, Danny parting his lips slowly as if he wanted to savour every moment of it. Harry wasn’t about to complain, not when the other man’s tongue was drawing irregular patterns on the inside of his mouth, shifting almost impossibly close as Harry tilted his head, deepening the kiss. Danny made a soft, satisfied hum low in his throat as Harry’s hands moved seemingly of their own accord, reaching up and gently grasping either side of his face.

When Danny stepped backward sometime later, Harry was instantly filled with panic, his fear subsiding when Danny produced a red envelope from his coat pocket. “I carried this round for days, never got the nerve to give it you though,” Danny said softly. 

Harry took the envelope and carefully opened it up, afraid of what it might contain. He was pleasantly surprised to find a card, a Valentines card, in fact. The outside had a heart on it, the inside held some generic salutation that Harry’s eyes automatically skimmed over (from habit more than anything), his gaze instead coming to rest on Danny’s terribly sloppy handwriting that sloped upward across the page and simply read, ‘to harry love danny jones’.

Harry had no idea what to do, he was torn between wanting to dance, wanting to cry and wanting to punch Danny in the face for holding out on him. He opted just to grin like a fool instead, saying “Thank you,” which didn’t entirely sum up how he felt but it was good enough. Then Danny was pushing Harry back against the shelves again, hands in his hair and kissing him urgently and opened mouthed, pressing their bodies together in the way that Harry had always imagined, only it was so, so much better, and if Danny hadn’t pulled away, insisting that they finish the paperwork still scattered on the front desk, Harry might well have come in his pants right then. 

Back at the front desk a few moments later, Harry asked dumbly “You’ll come and see me later?” pen poised for signing, and Danny’s daft grin grew wider than he’d ever seen it. “Yeah, of course.” 

There was a moment in between Danny leaving the desk and reaching the front door, an instant where Harry felt doubt, where he thought he was going to wake up and find he was still in bed and it had all been dream. Then Danny turned, his expression suddenly serious, “Is eight o’clock alright?” and Harry nodded, too breathless to reply. The following silence stretched, and still Danny remained standing in the doorway, the late afternoon sky suddenly opening up to a downpour that hammered violently at the window glass. 

Danny gazed out of the window, then down at his shoes, his reluctance to leave putting Harry on edge; then he was looking up, staring directly into Harry’s eyes: “I’m not the brightest crayola in the box,” he said solemnly, lifting his hand and placing it on the door handle, “but I know that I well love you.” 

Then Danny was grinning again, like it had never been awkward at all, opening the door and walking out into the deluge, leaving Harry speechless and trembling in the darkness of the salon.


End file.
